


Call Me Santa, Baby!

by Prairie_Garden_Girl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas traditions, F/M, Family Fluff, Modern AU, Romance, Santa Claus dress up, Slice of Life, The Red Wulf's Pack December prompt, Twins, Wulf Pack 12/20, coming home, family life, surprise, work travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prairie_Garden_Girl/pseuds/Prairie_Garden_Girl
Summary: 'Smalljon' Umber has to disappoint his wife - his work will keep him away from home over the holidays. Or will it? Maybe Jon's got something up his sleeve...a fuzzy, red sleeve with white fur trim!A short fluffy one-shot with a rare pair.
Relationships: Sansa Stark and Smalljon Umber, Sansa Stark/Jon "The Smalljon" Umber
Comments: 14
Kudos: 16
Collections: Pack Member Stories





	Call Me Santa, Baby!

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays everyone!  
> Man dresses up in a Santa costume...yep, it's a common trope, probably a million and one versions of it out there 😀 Well here is my version, number one million and two 😃  
> I hope you enjoy 🎄🎅
> 
> P.S. Just a mild language warning!

****

**Call Me Santa, Baby!**

Christmas Eve...

'Smalljon' Umber ensconced himself inside a nondescript utility room within his company's head office and prepared to video call his wife. Smalljon was a nickname that he had grudgingly come to accept over his 33 years of life; amongst the general public, it distinguished him from his father, who was known as 'the Greatjon'. Father and son shared the given name Jon, but because Northerners just had to be different, they couldn't go with something so mundane as Jon Junior and Jon Senior, could they?

The Umbers owned and operated Last Hearth Enterprises, a respected heavy construction contract company which managed projects and supplied heavy equipment all over the vast North of Westeros. At 58 years of age, the Greatjon claimed to be semi-retired from Last Hearth Enterprises, but all that really meant was that he only took on local projects; that had moved Jon (the younger) into managing the remote builds, and that kept him away from home more than ever.

This latest stint had gone on for a whopping 38 days in a row, and it was far from complete. Last Hearth had been awarded a major infrastructure project up in Hard Home, north of the Wall. The main challenge there was obviously the weather. It was always cold, of course, but when the skies were clear, the crew pushed out as much work as possible; if a storm rolled in, it could leave them idle for days, if not weeks, on end.

Almost a week ago, Jon had called Sansa with the unfortunate news that the crew was behind schedule. A blizzard had knocked them off their timeline for a critical part of the build, but the forecast read clear for the next week, so it was now or never, he'd told her: if they didn't do the necessary drilling and pouring while they had the opportunity, it could set the whole thing back for weeks. He wouldn't make it back for Christmas, he'd confirmed, miserably...best case scenario, he could be home the day after, and that was if they really hauled ass.

Jon hated letting his wife down. It nearly broke his heart to see the flash of disappointment in her eyes, and it was just as tough to watch her quickly school her expression into acceptance and forgiveness. Jon loved absolutely everything about Sansa: her quick wit, her professional talents as an interior design consultant, and of course her kindness and beauty; but he really admired her strength, the way she held down the fort and made their family and their home the best place in the world to come back to. For his part, Jon worked hard to make sure Sansa and their boys had everything they needed, though it often came with the sacrifice of being far apart. 

But that looming sacrifice was what drove Jon and his crew harder than ever. Nobody wanted to miss Christmas with their families; not only had they hauled ass on this job, they'd _kicked ass_ and completed this phase of the work two days before Christmas, and to their relief and delight, they would be on a plane Christmas Eve and home by the afternoon to enjoy a well-deserved break.

Collectively, the crew agreed to surprise their loved ones with the early return home. Jon had called his folks ahead of time, asking them to make sure Sansa would have no reason to go into town and happen to come across any clues (or people) that would give away the secret. Now, he was about to call Sansa with an "update" to maintain the ruse. He eased his tall frame down to settle on a stack of crates. He smiled as he thought about executing his clever plan, and how afterwards, he would make up for the long absence from his wife's loving arms…

... _She'll be sound asleep in bed...I'll slide under the covers and snuggle up beside her...Her eyes will flutter open, she'll be a little groggy, but then she'll gasp - "Oh, Jon! You're home! I missed you so much! Get over here, you sexy beast!" - It's gonna be_ **_so good_ ** _!_ Jon imagined, feeling warm with anticipation. This was going to be amazing, as long as nothing went wrong. That's when an alternative scenario popped into his mind, one possibly involving the baseball bat and can of bear spray Sansa kept near her side of the bed…

_Nah!_ Thought Jon, _It'll be fiiine...she wouldn't mistake me for a prowler,_ he chuckled, shaking off the twinge of doubt. He had planned it all out. The only thing he had to do was make sure Sansa thought he was still far from home...

Smalljon Umber combed his big, calloused fingers through his overgrown ginger hair, tried to look sad and tired, and placed the video call.

***

"But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, 'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!'" Sansa closed her old illustrated copy of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' and placed it back in the little bookshelf between the twins' beds. As a girl, that story had been read to her at bedtime every Christmas Eve, and she had carried on the tradition with her own children. 

Mats and Rasmus, six-year-old twin tornadoes, flanked their mother on the floor of their shared bedroom. One at a time, Sansa bent down to kiss their smooth foreheads as they yawned. They were tuckered out, thank the gods. Sansa's mother-in-law had called first thing in the morning, offering a choice: bring the boys to their house to spend a few hours with Grandma and Granddad, or, send Granddad to Sansa to help with chores and keep the boys occupied for the day. Sansa had chosen the Greatjon, which provided the dual benefit of keeping the twins busy while she wreaked havoc in the kitchen, as well as keeping her father-in-law out of her mother-in-law's hair, something Sansa was sure would be much appreciated!

"Alright you two, let's get you tucked in," she prompted, standing up and pulling back the blankets on the little beds.

"When is Dad coming home?" asked Mats, for the fiftieth time this evening, as he scrambled onto his mattress.

Sansa smiled patiently. "The day after Christmas, remember he told you when he called after lunch, my love?"

"Oh," Mats nodded. "Is it Christmas yet?"

"Christmas is _tomorrow_ Matty, right Mum?" Rasmus chimed in, already snug under his blankets with only his little face showing.

"That's right my sweet, you'd both better get to sleep so that Santa Claus can come!" Sansa remarked. "You know he won't come over as long as children are still wide awake and wiggling!" She leaned over each of her boys in turn, tucking in their warm quilts around their little bodies.

"Mum?" Rasmus piped up again timidly, and his mother paused to listen. "Will Santa like the date pinwheel cookies rather than the chocolate chip ones?" His high voice wavered with concern; together, according to tradition, they had placed a glass of milk and a plate of cookies on the hearth for Santa Claus to enjoy. In past years, the boys had insisted on sharing their favourite (chocolate chip) with Santa, but this year they had chosen the date pinwheels.

Sansa studied Rasmus' worried expression. "Are you second-guessing your choice, darling? I doubt Santa is very fussy when it comes to sweets!"

Mats spoke up. "Well, It's just that…," he hesitated, "we didn't leave chocolate chip cookies for Santa, because then there would be more for us!" he warbled. "Is that naughty?" The brothers stared at their mum, wide-eyed and guilty.

Suppressing a laugh, Sansa gave her boys an amused but reassuring smile. "More for you, eh? Well, look at it this way: Santa probably gets _millions_ of chocolate chip cookies on his way around the world; I bet he'll be happy for a bit of variety!" she winked, and the twins' shared conscience seemed assuaged.

She planted one more kiss on each forehead before turning out the lights. "Straight to sleep now," she told the boys firmly.

"Yes, Mum!" The boys promised together.

Sansa lingered at the bedroom door. "Goodnight, my loves," she said warmly.

"Goodnight, Mum!"

***

Getting the boys to bed didn't mean Sansa could relax...now was the time for her to play the role of Santa Claus, placing "his" gifts to the twins under the Christmas tree, stuffing the stockings, and drinking the milk left on the hearth (before it spoiled) and eating the cookies (making sure to leave a few crumbs behind).

As was her habit every Christmas Eve, Sansa had spent much of the day cooking and baking, preparing for Christmas Day and beyond: the period between now and New Year's would be a whirlwind of visiting and eating with family and friends, and receiving visitors in turn. She had whipped up enough sweets and cottage pies to sustain those comings and goings for several days, and now she packed up the cooled goods for storage.

It was late evening by the time Sansa was finally satisfied that everything was in order. She marched back upstairs to her ensuite to treat herself to a hot bubble bath, feeling a pang of regret that Jon wasn't here to join her...but, that did give her an idea…

_Maybe he'd like a little excitement to warm him up,_ she thought with a sultry smirk. She reached for her phone next to the bathtub and video dialled her husband, gathering large flotillas of bubbles and forming strategic mounds over her chest area while the phone rang...and rang...and rang…

No answer. Sansa tried again a few minutes later...still no response. _Hmm,_ she pondered, _he must be busy with the crew. He did tell me that they might do their own little Christmas Eve party…_

Sansa sighed and put her phone down, a bit disappointed. She pictured Jon with his co-workers sitting around a card table in the common room of their rental quarters; perhaps her husband was sharking everyone at a few hands of Westerlands Hold 'em, spreading out his winning hand with that handsome, roguish grin of his. She missed that face, the gleam of adoration in his eye when he looked at her...she'd been pining for the feel and the smell of him, regularly spending time in their clothes closet to fondle and sniff at Jon's shirts like a creep...

Sansa's heart ached over Jon being gone for the holidays and all the excitement he would miss with their boys. But she understood that the weather didn't care that it was Christmas; Jon was just doing what needed to be done, to avoid over-extending their already very long stint in Hard Home. She would call him first thing in the morning, and he would be able to watch his family open gifts even from afar.

She pulled the plug on the tub drain and got out to dry herself off, dressing up in her coziest pink buffalo check pajama set and fuzzy socks. It still felt too early to turn in, so she shuffled back downstairs to the kitchen to boil water for tea. While she was at it, she cued up her Christmas playlist to the wireless speakers in the den. With mug in hand, Sansa made her way to the sofa, turning off the main room lights, leaving only the sparkling of the Christmas tree and the tabletop lamp in the den to illuminate her way. She eased herself down onto the deep sofa and picked up the new Ellaria Sand novel she had been wanting to crack open over the holidays.

An hour and a half later, her belly warm from the tea, eyes blurring with drowsiness, Sansa marked her place and put down the book. _I'll just rest my eyes for five minutes,_ she thought as she turned off the lamp and rolled herself up in a striped wool throw blanket, sinking down along the sofa. She immediately drifted into a pleasant dream, one in which Jon was home, playing a game of hide and seek with the boys. Mats was "it", and Rasmus, being small, disappeared into one of his favourite hidey holes...but their father, being rather large, clumsily tried to shove his tall, broad frame between the Christmas tree and the wall, and none too quietly. A branch shook, a hanging ornament jingled, Jon cursed softly under his breath...in her sleep, Sansa blew a chuckle through her nose.

More movement, more jingling, more shuffling...

Sansa stirred on the sofa, startled half-awake at the sound. _Probably just a burnt log shifting,_ she thought groggily, not bothering to open her eyes. She began to drift off again, lulled by the fire's heat and the familiar, comforting scent of her husband: amber and musk with a tinge of steel. Sansa hummed happily, her dozing brain conjuring Jon's strong arms around her, and she burrowed further under her wool throw. It wasn't until she heard the strange noise yet again that her mind snapped into alertness. There was definitely something, or _someone_ , nearby. _What_ **_is_ ** _that?_ She thought, the little hairs rising on the back of her neck.

Apprehension washed over her; an intruder, on Christmas Eve? Break-ins were a rare enough occurrence in town, but out here on the outskirts it was basically unheard of. Sansa cracked her eyes open and peered across the den, just making out some human movement behind the enormous Christmas spruce twinkling festively under its thousands of lights, metres and metres of garland, and the vast assortment of ornaments placed on the boughs with care.

Sansa lay still in the relative dark and tried to calm herself, wracking her brain for what to do. _Should I just lie here and stay quiet, let them take everything?_ She asked herself. _Can I get up without them noticing and call for help?_ She realized with chagrin that she had left her phone in the kitchen; she would have to tiptoe right past the tree to get there. That was no good…

She thought about the boys, and how their Christmas morning would be ruined because a heartless burglar had stolen presents meant for little children! Anger overpowered fear; Sansa knew it was dangerous to confront an intruder, but perhaps if she gave the thief an out, she reasoned, it would all turn out alright. _Dammit!_ She frowned, determined now to somehow defend her home and make this right. _Maybe it's reckless, and Jon will be beside himself when he finds out, but I_ **_cannot_ ** _allow this asshole to saunter into_ **_my home_ ** _and_ **_steal from my family_ ** _!!_

Refusing to think about what could happen to her and the boys if she were to be overpowered, and as quietly as ever she could, Sansa slid her horizontal form off of the sofa and onto the plush Myrish area rug on the floor. Staying low, keeping her eyes on the movement around the tree, she shrugged off the wool blanket and began slinking, worm-like, toward the crackling fireplace. She aimed for the log storage cubby, where the tools also stood: the cast iron poker would be her best bet.

Reaching her destination with a sigh of relief, apparently undetected, Sansa eased up onto her haunches and into a crouch, ready to spring up if necessary. She quickly glanced at the fireplace tool stand and reached out to select the poker, lifting it out of the stand in painstaking slow motion. One little scrape or ding would give her away.

Maybe it was the heat still coming off the embers, or maybe it was tension, but sweat was beginning to bead on her brow and upper lip. Sansa resisted the urge to swipe away the moisture, she needed to focus, keep her cool and maintain a steady hand. Finally, triumphantly, she pulled the poker free and grasped it in both hands in front of herself, like a poised pitchfork. Slowly and silently, she waddled duck-style back across the rug toward the family Christmas tree.

As she went, Sansa marvelled at how easy this was so far; _either this guy can neither see nor hear, or I was born to be on a SWAT team,_ she mused, feeling rather proud of herself. Of course, the moment of confrontation hadn't arrived yet, it remained to be seen how badass she would be then…

Sansa approached the tree and circled it stealthily, poker in hand, until she could make out a kneeling human form rummaging through the beautifully wrapped parcels under the tree. The man was turned away from her, and she was looking at his broad back.

_Damn, he's a big one,_ she internally groaned in dismay. Not much hope of felling such a large opponent...she was going to have to rely on her firm negotiating skills. If nothing else, six years of parenting had certainly honed those. As Sansa prepared herself for whatever might come next, she couldn't help noticing that her Christmas song playlist was still going strong; 'Wonderful Christmas Time' was an oddly cheerful counterpoint to the tense situation, yet a fitting reminder of just what it was that she was attempting to salvage here. She rose to her full height, extended the poker, and sucked in a steadying breath.

"Drop those packages, and get out of my house!" She boomed in her most confident, authoritative tone. "I have a weapon!" (Sort of…) The man froze in his crouch and raised his hands up in what looked like surrender. Sansa couldn't stop a little smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth. _Good,_ she thought, _he responds to the Mama Bear Voice!_ "I've already called the police." (She hadn't.) "If you leave now peacefully and don't come back, I'll call them and tell them I made a mistake." The man seemed to slouch in defeat.

Sansa threw her shoulders back, almost relaxing into her role; _gods, I rock at this! Jon would be so proud!_ Premature or not, she gave herself a mental pat on the back. The burglar shifted position and Sansa's poker hand flinched instinctively. She locked her eyes onto the bulk of his broad shoulders, thick arms and gigantic booted feet. There was something familiar in the way he moved, but... _wait_ ...she noticed the white gloves covering his massive hands, and shiny white curls tumbling down from his face and under his ( _red?)_ hat. She squinted against the glare of the twinkling tree lights... _Is this weirdo dressed as…_

"Santa Claus?" Sansa squeaked dubiously.

The man took that as his cue to rise and turn toward her. His eyes glinted in amusement as he pinned Sansa with his gaze, appraising her pink pajama combat gear and deadly fireplace poker.

"Ho ho ho, in the flesh!" Santa Claus confirmed with his trademark chuckle. "My dear Mrs Umber, you've interrupted my very important work...I've got a strict gift delivery schedule to keep, you see!" he scolded gently.

Well as if the shape and the smell of the man had not been enough to reveal his true identity, the voice was a dead giveaway.

"JON!!!" Sansa shouted, unceremoniously dropping the poker, shocked and delighted and thoroughly embarrassed that she hadn't even recognized her own husband in her own house! He'd had her so convinced that he would still be far away in Hard Home for several more days, the possibility that the interloper in her home might actually be Jon hadn't even crossed her mind!

"Shhh!!" Jon raised a gloved finger to his lips. "Don't wake the boys! I've just got a couple more here…," he whispered, and bent down to his duffel bag, pulling out a few more small, wrapped boxes and carefully placing them under the tree with the others.

" _JON!!!"_ Sansa repeated irritably this time, but keeping her voice down to a harsh whisper. _Did he seriously just 'shush' me??_ She fumed. _Away from home for 38 days in a row, and he turns his back on me?!_ **_The nerve_ ** _!!_

"Smalljon Umber!" Sansa spat, snapping her fingers at him. He straightened his back; she knew he got annoyed when she called him that...she shot him a smug grin when he turned to look at her, but he wasn't cowed just yet.

"My dear Mrs Umber," he chortled merrily, "Surely you have me confused with someone else! I go by the name Saint Nick. Or if you prefer," he winked, "You can call me Santa, baby!" He wagged his bushy ginger eyebrows at Sansa, and she clucked and crossed her arms over her chest impatiently.

_So it's role play, is it? Fine._

"Oh, I beg your pardon, _Saint Nick_ ," she retorted. "That's quite a big sack you've got there," she drawled, smirking. "I wonder, did you happen to stuff my missing husband inside? He's been away for ages, and I was so hoping he would make it home for Christmas!"

Saint Nick reached down and grabbed the duffel bag, turning it upside down and shaking it demonstratively. "Hmm, empty…," he shrugged and scratched at his long white beard. "Your husband is gone, you say? What a shame...one might say, a waste…," he rumbled, cocking a suggestive eyebrow at an unimpressed Sansa. "Uh, by the way," Jon shifted, looking a bit concerned, "Are you going to cancel the police now?"

Sansa sheepishly examined the cuticles of her right hand fingernails. "Don't worry, they're not coming," she admitted in a huff.

Jon visibly relaxed. "Ho ho, very tricky!" He wagged a finger at his wife. "And would you really have whacked me with a cast iron fireplace poker?"

"If necessary, I would have!" Sansa gave him a stern look. "If necessary, _I still might_ …," she warned.

They both glanced down at the poker lying on the floor next to Sansa's fuzzy-stockinged feet, then back to each other. Sansa narrowed her eyes; Jon raised his brows.

And now they were at an impasse: Sansa, stubbornly cross-armed and pouty; Jon, amused and not willing to give up the game. Sansa was at odds with herself. A huge part of her wanted to launch into Jon's arms and smother him with 38 days' worth of kisses, but another part wanted to be angry with him for pulling this prank instead of hurrying straight home! The two of them stood locked in a stare down, the house silent around them but for the popping of the fire and the opening chords of 'Please Come Home For Christmas' on the den's Bluetooth speakers.

Saint Nick's curly beard twitched up in a grin, and he hummed aloud to break the tension. "I wonder, Mrs Umber...before I get back to my reindeer and carry on my merry way…," he extended a gloved hand toward Sansa, a twinkle in his eye, "Might I have one dance?"

Sansa's ire melted a little, and she let out a half exasperated sigh. She couldn't be _too_ angry, she supposed...she had to admit, Jon was a rather sexy Saint Nick, and he had put a lot of thought and effort into this surprise, not to mention _getting home in time for Christmas_ …

Feigning reluctance, Sansa placed her hand into Jon's outstretched one and allowed him to pull her close. Wrapped up in his embrace at last, she inhaled her husband's familiar scent: amber, musk, a tinge of steel, and...she wrinkled her nose...sweat... _He must be cooking in this silly costume!_ She chuckled to herself. But he was so warm, and she could feel the beat of his big heart through the plush red coat, and it felt so good, she felt so _complete_ , to have him this close again...

"Now Mrs Umber," Jon interrupted his wife's musings, "You gave old Saint Nick quite a fright earlier! Good boys and girls are supposed to be sound asleep in their beds before Santa pays a visit," he scolded lightly.

"If you expected everyone to be asleep, then why did you bother with the costume?" Sansa snickered, speaking to Jon and momentarily forgetting the role play. Jon cocked an eyebrow at her...her mind whirred...after depositing the gifts, had he planned to come up to their bed _in costume_?! "Never mind!" She giggled, biting her lip and flushing a deep crimson; the rest of her annoyance evaporated at the thought of having a naughty Saint Nick between her sheets.

Jon gave her a slow smile and swayed his wife to the music. "You're beautiful, Mrs Umber," Jon murmured, eyes smouldering like the firelogs. "That's an adjective that gets thrown around a lot, I know, but you must be rich off the royalties from its rampant use, because _you own it,_ " he winked.

Sansa snorted and rolled her eyes, completely unmoved. "Wow, who knew Saint Nick was such a line artist?" she asked dryly, smirking.

Jon jerked his head back in mock affront. "That wasn't a line, I swear!" 

"It was totally a line, and a terrible one at that!" Sansa insisted. She couldn't help smiling; as cheesy as Jon was being, at least he knew how to keep things fresh!

Jon tightened his hold around his wife's waist and lowered his voice, almost knocking her out with the sincerity in his gaze. "But I meant it," he rasped, sending shivers down Sansa's spine and another bright blush to her cheeks.

She briefly lost the ability to speak. She had lived with this man for a long time, yet somehow he still managed to get her off-kilter, get her warm and flustered and wanting him so much. But, on the other hand, she had lived with this man for a long time, and she could hold her own…

She cleared her throat and cheekily grinned up at 'Saint Nick'. "Well I hate to break it to you," she said, not sounding regretful at all. "But in fact, I do _not_ own the word beautiful, and I'm _not_ rich, so I'm afraid I can't be the Sugar Mama you were clearly hoping for!" She smiled up at him sweetly, and wickedly.

Jon hummed dejectedly and let out a long sigh, ruffling the curls of his silky white beard. "I guess I'm switching to Plan B then," he mused.

"Which is?"

"You can be my Mistress of Pain and Pleasure?" Jon rumbled darkly as his big hands traveled lower down Sansa's waist, frustratingly close to cupping her backside.

"Ahh," Sansa purred with a knowing tone while trying to keep her breathing calm and even. "Santa's true colours revealed at last." Her slender hand slunk up the back of Jon's thick neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape under the red fur-trimmed hat; she gave a sharp tug of the overgrown strands, and Santa Claus uttered a rather unwholesome but approving comment. 

Sansa smiled victoriously. "By the way," she continued, leaning up just millimetres away from her husband's face. "Aren't you a married man? What would Mrs Claus have to say about your behaviour? Does she have any idea what you're really up to tonight?"

Jon grunted, regaining some of his senses. "Oh, Mrs Claus and I...well sadly, it didn't work out." He shrugged at Sansa's enquiring expression. "She left me; took up with the bloody Night King," he explained with an air of resignation. "I've been so lonely," he lamented. "Stuck up in the Far North, no one to warm my bunk during the long, cold nights...I've been wondering if there's someone special out there, someone who can handle a traveling man like me...someone who would keep the home fires burning, so to speak. Know anyone like that, Mrs Umber?"

Sansa's resolve broke at last. Her husband, or rather, 'Saint Nick', was just too adorable, too sweet, too sexy…

The couple pressed close together, lips nearly touching. Sansa smiled. "Now that you mention it," she said softly, "I might have somebody in mind…,"

***

Christmas Morning…

"Mum, Mum, _Mummm_ ," came two little boys' shrill whispers from the foot of the bed. "Mum!"

"Hm?" Their mother grunted. It was early. It was dark. Not a creature was stirring; well not the creatures' parents, anyway.

Smalljon Umber felt the jostling as twin tornadoes launched up onto the bed and scrambled across the mattress; he sat up, peeling strands of Sansa's long red hair out of his short, prickly beard growth.

"Good morning, guys," Jon yawned, startling his sons into stillness. The boys gaped at him, trying to compute why there was suddenly an extra person in their mother's bed. Then recognition dawned.

"Oh, hi Dad!" greeted Rasmus cheerfully. "What are _you_ doing here?" Mats smiled shyly, but didn't make a peep. 

Beside Jon, Sansa had roused, and she snorted softly listening to the exchange. Jon gave a wry smile: his children's subdued reaction to his return home didn't surprise him. He'd always found that the longer his absence, the less excited the kids were to see him again. Children were creatures that thrived on routine. He knew they missed him when he was away, but after 38 days, he also knew they would have grown accustomed to having only their mother around every day...and he knew they would soon grow accustomed to their father being back too.

"What am _I_ doing here?" Jon rumbled playfully. "Last time I checked, I still live here...right Mum?" He glanced at his wife, still buried under the comforter.

"Ummm…," Sansa hummed, unhelpfully.

Jon looked back at his boys. "She said yes," Jon interpreted loosely. The boys giggled, and crawled close to snuggle into their dad. "And," Jon continued, kissing the crown of each messy-haired head, "Guess who it was that brought me home early? He even gave me a little souvenir…," he said as he grabbed the Santa hat from the bedpost and perched it on his head.

"SANTA CLAUS!!" Rasmus and Mats shouted together. "Can we go downstairs now, Mum, _pleeeeaaassseee_???" They begged.

Finally, Sansa propped herself upright against the heavy oak headboard, stretching her arms. "Alright, but no shaking or opening gifts until everyone has eaten their breakfast! Understood?" She wagged a finger for emphasis.

"Yes Mum!" The twins exclaimed breathlessly as they scrambled back off the bed.

"Wait!" Sansa cried, and the twins froze in their tracks. "Repeat back what I just said, please!"

"Don't touch the gifts until after breakfast," the boys recited in unison, grinning from ear to ear.

Sansa laughed at their enthusiasm. "Very well, off you go then!"

The twins sprinted off like a pair of race horses, their stampeding footsteps echoing through the house.

Jon patted a big hand on his wife's thigh. "Something tells me we'd better get breakfast going," he speculated.

Sansa smiled up at her husband and sighed happily. "I'm so glad to have you home, my love." She reached up and adjusted the Santa hat on her husband's head before trailing a soft touch down his grinning face.

" _How_ glad, Mrs Umber?" 

Sansa leaned close and whispered in his ear, something that started with _If you cook breakfast…_

Suddenly energized, Jon leaped out of bed, throwing on a Henley and a pair of flannel pants. "Who wants scrambled eggs?" He hollered on his way downstairs. 

"Thank you, Santa!" Sansa said aloud...so far, this was the best Christmas ever.

The End...Merry Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 💛🌻


End file.
